


All He Asks of Her

by munkinette



Series: All I Ask of You [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:32:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/munkinette/pseuds/munkinette
Summary: Rumplestiltskin has a very important question to ask.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoneandonlylittlebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneandonlylittlebird/gifts).



> First part of my Secret Santa gift to the loveliest theoneandonlylittlebird!  
> Prompt: "All I ask of you"

The cottage was looking as good as could be expected. Rumplestiltskin glanced around, for the first time trying to see his home through the eyes of another. The floors were clean, all drapes scrupulously washed, his old spinning wheel polished to a shine. Fresh logs had been laid near the grate by the fire, and all the aromatic herbs he'd been able to find awaited, tied with a little bow of string, for the call of his old copper tea pot. He had fearlessly extinguished all spider webs and dust mites, had brought fresh water from the well, and now he checked anew every nook and cranny of the place. Nothing to do to ward off the blizzard ready to storm outside, but in here, with the fire going and two of his finest candles burning low, he had done his best to create a safe, albeit modest, haven.  
  
If only it would be enough.  
  
Belle would be there any second now, and everything had to be _perfect_ for her. Yes, the shabby cottage door would creak as he let her in, but she'd smile that brilliant smile of hers and not mind that the floorboards were a little withered and uneven, or that the fire burned just bright enough to keep the both of them from freezing. Her soft, warm hand would squeeze his cold one, and she'd walk inside and gracefully plop down onto the blanket and pillows he had laid out for her in front of the fire. She'd take out the book hidden in her cloak - a different book each week -, and beckon him to join her. He would fidget and fuss as he always does, and ask her if she'd like a cup of tea. That would give him something to occupy his hands with and, most importantly, precious time to steel his nerves.  
  
The wooden floor would be hard beneath his old, tried bones when he'd finally take his place beside Belle, but the wool blanket, grasped tightly in his fingers to prevent them from shaking, would be soft and reassuring. His battered ankle would throb beneath his flesh, but so would his heart and all its little hard-won scars, because he'd be looking into the bluest, kindest eyes in all the realms, and listening to Belle's warm voice recounting tales of magic and bravery. He would have that moment with her, and all moments that came before it, to hoard near his soul and cherish forever. He would have but that one moment to find the courage he had misplaced years ago, and finally, _finally_ ask her.  
  
Ask whether she could possibly grow to love him, flawed as he is both inside and out, scared of the world and everything in it that isn't Belle or his son; unimportant and weak, clumsy and weary of men, cynical as he sometimes is, and hopeful as she sometimes makes him. Ask whether he could ever hope to inspire in her the same deep affection she has for her books, and whether she would treat his heart just as gently, and hold him just as close as she does them.  
  
Her answer would be no, of course. There can be no question of that. Belle couldn’t possibly say yes, as much as he wishes her to do so. Because she deserves better, more, nothing short of a magical being able to grant her every wish, keep her safe, content and loved. But Rumplestiltskin would love her nonetheless, from afar if that is to be her choice, because his high regard of her is not conditioned by her equally high regard of him. He had grown fond of Belle's easy smiles and bright mind, and has fallen in love with her kindness and fearlessness. He loves everything of her that is so different from him, and all the tentative, shy parts of her that remind him of his own. In his eyes, Belle is alike the otherworldly creatures in her books, a faery made of morning dew and sunshine, a benevolent goddess, treasured and praised in pages bound by adoring hands, or maybe a dragon, hoarding books and fiercely protecting her loved ones.  
  
Belle has come into his life months ago, saving him from getting caught in a terrible storm of ice and thunder. Since then, she has become his companion during long hours spent guarding their market stalls; wool and book sellers didn't particularly thrive in their little village, but not selling all that much had suddenly stopped being so terrifying when he and his son got to spend their days in Belle's company. Without Rumplestiltskin even realizing it, Belle began teaching him bedtime stories, so that he would never run out of fairytales to tell his son. She became his silent accomplice in tricking his son into eating and smiling more and, somewhere along the way, most unbelievingly, Belle became their closest friend.  
  
And now she will come to his home, not because obligation, pity, anger, remorse have driven her here like they had others, but because she _wants_ to be here. And Rumplestiltskin is as ready as he'll ever be to ask her to come to him each day, for all of their days. It feels like tilting at windmills, but there is truth in that Belle bestows her bravery upon others, because she has certainly bestowed it on him. Rumplestiltskin can’t think of ever having had the courage, in his other life, to do more than admire her from afar.  
  
A knock at the door, a trembling touch of Rumplestiltskin's hand on the latch, and Belle is there. But she doesn’t head straight for the fireplace like she had in his musings, instead she hugs him, close and tight and warm, and bestows a soft kiss on his withered cheek. Beneath her cloak she's wearing her blue dress, warm, comfortable and, coincidentally, the one he likes best, and Rumplestiltskin gets a glimpse at the little wooden spindle hanging around her neck, the one that _he_  had made for her. It is the small notion that he might be welcomed and cared for that gives him the strength to take her hand in his, the foolhardiness to skip offering tea and inquiring after the book she's brought, and just say what he has been meaning to say for _months_.  
  
“Belle, I... I would very much want to ask you something. That is, if- if you think you could accept me, unworthy of you as I am, if you would welcome my company and that of my son... That would make me the happiest of men, because I very much want to spend with you all the days I have left. To smile with you and cry with you, and hold your hand and walk the same path as you. If... if you’ll have me.”  
  
Tentative eyes reach up to Belle’s face, and he knows it the moment her eyes go glassy that he has done a terrible mistake. He knows then and there that she will let him down gently, and that her pain comes from causing him pain. He has to say something to prevent her from crying, tell her that no, he is not upset that she doesn’t feel the same way. That she is his most cherished friend and will always be. That he hasn’t really thought about what he was saying, and she shouldn’t give it any more thought either.  
  
The gentle hand coming to rest on his arm keeps him silent a moment longer and, as much as he would like to disappear into thin air at that very moment, he has nowhere to hide from her eyes boring into his as she speaks.  
  
“My darling Rumplestiltskin, I am already yours. ”


End file.
